


Just want a way of keeping you inside

by EponineTheStrange (gallifreyandglowclouds)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, also a homophobic slur pops up in here, but it's used once and is clearly shown to be wrong but do tread carefully, eleanor makes a brief appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 18:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3219875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyandglowclouds/pseuds/EponineTheStrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As it turns out, the best thing that happens to Louis that December night is getting stood up for his date. (famous!Louis and nonfamous!Harry au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just want a way of keeping you inside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swallowsmateforlife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swallowsmateforlife/gifts).



> This was a ton of fun to write - I hope you like it! Title is from 'Ink', by Coldplay. I apologise for not imputing any special significance to Valentine's day in the actual fic, but let's all be honest, every day is probably Valentines day in the Styles-Tomlinson household.

Harry isn’t used to all the flashbulbs outside the restaurant. He’d never really thought of the restaurant as the kind of place that’s usually made for celebrities. He’s dead serious. It’s just this little Italian hole-in-the-wall place in the West End that attracts the – well, it’s hard to describe, but perhaps the best way to say it is that it’s typically occupied with the kind of incredibly wealthy people who don’t usually attract the paparazzi. Like, David Cameron and his wife came on a ‘date night’ once. There are a lot of politicians and weird Russian oligarchs who own all the fancy flats in Mayfair. He and Niall have been taking bets on who’s going to walk through the door. There is, apparently, a table reserved for two, but under a name that both Niall and Harry are pretty sure is fake (how many John Smiths are there in the world, anyways?) and now it’s up to them to wait and watch. A lot of the couples inside keep looking out the window with barely concealed animosity, and Harry’s pretty sure it’s because their lovely romantic dinners are being rudely interrupted by a flurry of photographers.

Harry deposits one of the card machines back in its designated spot (Liam, their maître ‘d, is, fortunately, anal enough to have labelled special trays for each of the machines, as if they’d leave such an important piece of property just lying around in the first damn place) as Niall ducks out of the cellar with a bottle of wine that costs more than what Harry makes in an evening. They don’t have a ton of tables, nothing that he and Niall can’t manage, but tonight they’re all booked up and things are a little hectic. The table that the old couple (may very well have been a sir and a lady, for all Harry knows and cares) are in the process of vacating is the one that their celebrity guest will occupy once he or she arrives. Oh, right, Harry has to bring the old couple their coats now. Sometimes he feels like a bit of an amateur at this.

Niall waits for him behind the bar once he’s done, and Harry slips in beside him, sighing. “Thought this was supposed to be a chilled out place.”

“Crazy night,” Niall says. He’s remarkably sanguine about, well, everything, even on busy nights. “It’s one night of the year, though. I’m sure we’ll survive.”

“Just wish that lot would fuck off,” Harry mutters, gesticulating to the cameras outside. He’s pretty sure that they aren’t there to photograph elderly politicians and aristocrats. “Make everyone’s lives a lot easier.”

“We’ve got a running bet on who it might be,” Niall says, “me and Olly and Perrie from the kitchen. Perrie’s money is on Jolie and Pitt, but the best internet stalking I could possibly do told me that neither of them are in London at the moment.”

“Will and Kate?”

“Nah, too many paps for that. I’m pretty sure they’d have some kind of agreement in place, what with the new baby and all that?”

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t know too much about how the royal family deals with photographers. “So, one of the young ones, then?”

“Seems like an odd place for that,” Niall says. “If I were some kid who just won the X-Factor, I’d probably choose a much flashier place.”

The cameras suddenly snap into a fever pitch of flashes, and Harry guesses that whomever they’re expecting tonight has pulled up in front of the restaurant.

Lo and behold, they have, and to Harry’s great surprise, it’s Louis Tomlinson. If Niall was talking about X-Factor winners, he was off by a few seasons. Louis had won it in 2010, and Harry distinctly remembers being enchanted by his transformation from some awkward Yorkshire lad to a polished performer in a matter of weeks. Harry also had a bit of a crush on him at the time, which he hopes that everyone will have forgotten about (but Gemma doesn’t forget anything, so he’s pretty sure he’ll have a snarky text or four when he gets home, because big sisters are the best), and this is a super unfortunate moment for Harry, because Louis Tomlinson in public is about as pretty as he’d ever imagined him to be.

“You wanna take this one, Haz?” Niall says, with a smirk. Oh, he might have told Niall once when he was off his face a bit. The night keeps getting better and better.

The clientele of the restaurant probably isn’t young enough to know who he is, or maybe they have kids who are young enough to appreciate it, but everyone looks basically annoyed at the cameras and then goes back to eating their meals once it’s all over. Harry, trying not to blush, steps out to greet Louis.

“Mr. Smith, I take it?” Harry asks, arms clasped behind his back.

Louis nods and grins, but it looks a bit pained. “Yup.”

“Your table is over here,” Harry says, gesturing behind him. He even remembers to be a perfect gentleman and pull out a chair for Louis, and even grabs his coat. (Then he remembers that he just works at a fancy restaurant and is contractually obliged to do these things, lest he be fired or something like that.)

“Can I get you anything to drink while you’re waiting for your guest?” Harry asks, pulling out his pad with a smile. Louis just going to ask for water or something, and Harry’s going to look like an idiot. Fantastic.

“I’ll just have some tap water while I’m waiting for her,” he says, tersely. Harry nods, and turns on his heel to fill up a jug.

Harry turns on the tap and pulls a jug out from under the bar, and tries to pretend that his ears aren’t burning. Serving his celebrity crush is either the zenith or the nadir of his life, he can’t quite decide.

“How’s it going?” Niall asks, making a gin and tonic beside him.

Harry shrugs. “Doesn’t seem like he was particularly looking forward to this date, and she’s not here yet, which is probably awkward. But he’s fine, I think.”

“Hope he’s a good tipper,” Niall says. Harry smiles. He’d probably drop to his knees for the guy if he was a good tipper. Harry has such a boner for good tippers.

He fills up Louis’ glass, and quietly ducks away from the table. From what Harry can see, Louis is texting the person who may or may not be supposed to meet him here tonight, but he switches to Angry Birds not too long after Harry leaves.

Over the next half-hour, something amazing happens – the person that Louis is meeting, his girlfriend, presumably, does not show up. The gauntlet of photographers by the door diminishes somewhat when Alberto the scary sous-chef goes out and threatens to call the police if they don’t all leave, but some just move across the street, and get out whatever crazy zoom lenses allow them to take photos of one guy in a restaurant from across the street.

Louis keeps declining all of Harry’s offers to give him something to drink, or something to eat to the point where he hasn’t even touched the basket of bread sitting in front of him. He’s beaten like, six levels of Angry Birds too, which makes Harry think that he’s not too fussed either way if his date doesn’t show up.

“This is a new level of sad,” Niall says. They’re emptying out for the night, only one other table occupied other than the one where Louis Tomlinson sits. “Like, if he can’t get his date to show, there’s no hope for the rest of us.”

“Niall,” Harry says, leaning on the bar and staring out at Louis, “you are prettier than most people on this planet. You will find someone. And that someone will be great.”

“Maybe that someone will be Louis Tomlinson,” Niall says.

“He’s not really your type, I didn’t think?” Harry says. “Thought you were more one for girls.”

“Fair enough,” Niall says.

“Do you two mind doing your jobs, maybe, and not creeping on our guests?” Liam says. He has this unnerving habit of sneaking up on people. It makes Harry want to beat him with a bottle of Cointreau sometimes.

“Sorry boss,” Harry says, and picks up a glass to wipe at absently.

Harry lets it go five minutes more before he heads back to Louis.

“Sir,” Harry says, “I’m sure you’re starving. You may as well order, instead of just sitting here waiting.”

“You all sick of me moping?” Louis says, looking up from the game with the ghost of a smile.

Harry shakes his head. “Just want to get some food in you, that’s all.”

Louis picks up a menu, scans it for a few seconds, then says, “Quattro Staggione Pizza, please.”

“Excellent choice,” Harry says. “It’ll be along soon.”

He gives the order to the people in the kitchen, and then goes to mix Louis a Jack and Coke. He totally doesn’t remember that it’s his favourite drink from one of those stupid Yahoo interviews that Harry totally never watched.

“On the house,” he says, when Louis looks surprised. “To make up for your lonely evening.”

“Jack and Coke?” Louis asks.

Harry nods.

“Can’t believe anyone watches those fucking things,” Louis mutters. “Thanks anyways, though.”

“Not a problem,” Harry replies with a smile.

He disappears again, tries to go back into his professional waiter persona until Louis’ pizza is done, and then he goes to drop it off at the table.

“You know,” Harry says, gently laying it on the table, “I think you’ve got a pizza my heart, even if your date isn’t here.”

Louis looks up at him, incredulous. He smiles, and Harry can see a little hint of crinkles around his eyes, and then thinks _well, this night might not be a total loss for him so far._

“You’re cute, you know that?” Louis says.

Harry shakes his head, but yeah, he knows. He’s super cute. “Enjoy your pizza.”

The restaurant is completely empty by the time Louis finishes up – slow eater, Harry figures – so once all the tables are cleared and dishes put away, all he really has to do is lurk.

And watch Louis eat, because he’s not in the least creepy. So creepy, in fact, that he’s back at his table the minute that he finishes the pizza, ignoring every bit of food service training that he’s been given.

“That was fantastic,” Louis says. “My compliments to the chef.”

“I’ll let her know,” Harry says, smiling. “Anything else for you this evening? Dessert? Tea?”

Louis shakes his head. “Just the cheque.”

Harry brings him the cheque, and then his coat, and doesn’t look at the receipt carefully enough, until Niall grabs it and swears loudly. Liam’s head pokes out of the wine cellar, disapproval evident on his face.

“Fucker just tipped you a hundred pounds!” Niall says.

“Language,” Liam admonishes, and then goes back to whatever anal-retentive thing he was doing.

“Nice,” Harry says, nodding at the receipt and smiling. “Guess he had a good meal.”

“He liked your jokes better, according to this note, which must mean the pizza was _shite,_ ” Niall says, grinning.

“Cordially fuck off,” Harry mutters, but he’s actually stuck on some euphoric cloud that doesn’t dissipate until he passes out in his ridiculously uncomfortable bed when he and Niall get back to the flat they share. (He’s so charitable that he splits up the tip between everyone. It’s been that kind of an evening.)

* * *

 

Louis isn’t actually sad that Eleanor doesn’t turn up for that date. He had half-predicted that it would happen, though the embarrassment of getting stood up is maybe something that he would have like to avoid, if he had the ultimate ability to choose everything that could happen to him.

But he doesn’t, because he’s a great singer, but a bit of a prick and certainly no one special, so he doesn’t get to. Eleanor does not turn up, does not brave the cameras and tabloid speculation, and Louis admires her for it, because it means that she has more balls than he does, and if he wanted a way to stand up to his management a little more, she might be the role model for him.

He crashes back at his flat, which is a super cool place, but too big and too empty just for him. Eleanor’s shoes aren’t at by the front door anymore, and Louis figures that what little stuff she left in the guest room is probably gone too. The first four months of their relationship was great, because that’s approximately the length of time that Louis can feign liking girls for, but for the remaining – year? Eighteen months? – things had been awful and dreary, and dating kind of felt like a contractual obligation.

(Strictly, it wasn’t, though hypothetically his appeal to young teenage girls, and more importantly, their parents, might have been somewhat reduced if people knew about his actual sexual preferences, so there might have been a couple of meetings where it was strongly implied that Louis could maybe try the whole hetero thing for a while, and _oh look, here’s this lovely student that you could maybe try it with_. It sucks, but it did net him a nicer house than he might ever have dreamed of and enough savings to put all of his sisters through uni without them having to take any debt, so maybe there’s been a bit of payoff.)

He wonders how the powers that be will have spun the whole situation tonight. Maybe they’ll just stop flogging the dead horse that is his relationship and just let them both be. He should start looking in to buying cats.

He switches to Safari on his phone, and searches his own name, which gives him the creeps. The first few headlines and pictures that come up are all about him and the cute waiter. Louis has always loved to sink a good PR strategy, so he flips through the articles about him, noticing the subtle snark in the Sugarscape article about how he’s looked more genuinely happy talking to this young waiter than he had in ages with Eleanor.

Messages buzz on to his phone – from his mum, an apology and a ‘we need to talk’ from El, and one from his manager.

Louis smells a Christmas breakup, and he couldn’t be more pleased.

* * *

Harry has definitely not been spending a little more time at Tesco checking out the gossip rags. Not at all. He does not notice that Louis Tomlinson breaks up with his girlfriend five before Christmas, while Harry’s off school and back home in Manchester. Actually, that he genuinely didn’t know, until his sister comes home and whacks him over the head with a rolled up copy of the Sun while he’s catching up on _Miranda._ (What an arsehole she can be.)

“If you and he,” she says, standing directly in front of the TV, hands on her hips, “are not fucking by the end of March, I will be so disappointed.”

“Language!” His mother shouts from the kitchen.

“Yeah Gem,” he says, crossing his arms, “language. And that’s not going to happen.”

Gemma rolls her eyes. “Dream big, little brother. It’s not like your history degree is going to get you some other job, you know. Being someone’s sugar baby is probably your best bed, what with the state of the economy and all.”

He throws a pillow at her for that comment. She shrieks as it hits her in the middle of her chest, and immediately throws it right back, knocking over a lamp.

Ah, Harry loves to be home.

* * *

 

Later that evening, when Gemma and his mum are watching Orange is the New Black on Netflix, and his stepdad has fallen asleep behind his newspaper, and Harry is absently playing Candy Crush on his phone, he gets a text from Niall.

_From: Stupid Irish Dude  
Get ur ass back 2 London _

_To: Stupid Irish Dude  
But people are making me food here _

Niall doesn’t respond for about five minutes, and then he calls Harry. This must be either terrible or great, and he gets up from the couch and steps outside the living room to take the call.

“Yup?” He says, and then Niall starts talking at three million words a minute. “Ni. Calm down. What’s happened?”

“He came back!”

“Who came back?”

“Louis!”

“Louis Tomlinson?”

“Yeah!”

Oh. This is unexpected.

“He was looking for you,” Niall says. “Had to tell him you weren’t in, might have given him your mobile number.”

Harry’s jaw literally drops. He didn’t think that people actually did that, but at this moment, it feels appropriate.   
“What the fuck, Ni,” he hisses. He is in deep shit. Deeper shit than he could ever imagine.

“What? He’s cute!”

“He’s straight!”

Niall clucks his tongue. “Harry, darling, you know that you can like girls and boys and everything else, you know?”

Harry would like to think that Louis Tomlinson is bisexual or pansexual or whatever, but he kind of doubts it. Louis has had a committed girlfriend since winning the X-Factor, and like, Harry knows that it’s not impossible, but he thinks that it’s improbable.

“I know, Niall,” he says sharply, “but that’s not a good enough reason for you to give him my mobile number! That’s like, personal information!”

“Get some tail, asshole,” Niall says. “And get your butt back here. Or don’t, because then he’ll keep coming and keep giving us all massive tips. Liam even smiled yesterday.”

Harry hangs up, not saying anything. He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

* * *

 

Louis is high out of his goddamn mind, and staring at his phone, with Harold Styles’ mobile number staring back at him from the screen. His apartment smells so strongly of weed that he’s going to have to pay the cleaning lady extra to sort all of it out on Wednesday. He feels the smallest of pangs of guilt as he takes another drag.

“You should,” Zayn says, gesticulating at Louis’ phone vaguely, “give the kid a call.”

“Don’t call him a kid,” Louis mutters. Louis wants to maybe put his dick in him, so he can’t call him that.

Zayn shrugs, smiling. “Still, give him a call.”

Louis will send him a text. This will cut a nice path between his cowardice and the fact that yes, he should give Harold a call.

_To: Harold Styles  
Hey, it’s Louis from a while back _

What a brilliantly non-specific text. He should write a book or something.

“So, what’s the new deal?” Zayn asks, flopping out on the couch, feet on Louis’ lap. If Louis wasn’t stoned out of his mind, he probably wouldn’t let Zayn get away with this shit. Except, he is stoned out of his mind. So there.

“Can’t be like, _out_ out,” Louis says. “But no more dating girls, so that’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Really nice. Get a boyfriend. Go on super secluded cool dates. Fuck in caves, or some shit like that.”

That’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. He laughs, tilting his head back. But maybe. He’ll tuck that into the back of his mind for future reference. He’s so absorbed in thinking of what he should do with a significant other he actually loves that he almost doesn’t notice his phone vibrate in his lap.

He looks down at it, absent mindedly, and then nearly jumps when he sees that it’s Harold.

_From: Harold Styles  
Yeah, you got the right number _

Ah. Well, he’s sarcastic. Or nervous. Maybe he’s as flummoxed as Louis is, he doesn’t know.

_From: Harold Styles  
Well? _

The ball is in his court now.

_To: Harold Styles  
I guess we should meet up or summat _

_To: Harold Styles  
Soz, I’m no good at this _

Maybe he’s being endearingly stupid, or he’s completely blowing his chances. He doesn’t know.

* * *

 

Harry can now officially check ‘texted with an X-Factor winner’ off his bucket list.

He can also maybe check off ‘getting asked out by his embarrassing teenage crush, who also happens to be an X-Factor winner’ off his bucket list, but he can’t be one hundred percent sure that actually happened.

_To: Louis Tomlinson  
Yeah, probably _

Now, he’s sitting on his bed, hands shaking, waiting for Louis’ response.

_From: Louis Tomlinson  
You got a place you like? _

_To: Louis Tomlinson  
It’s a kind of shitty student pub _

_From: Louis Tomlinson  
Sign me the fuck up _

* * *

So a couple weeks later, he’s sitting in the back corner, waiting for Louis to come in. Harry half-believes that he won’t show, that everything that’s happened over the last two weeks has actually been some kind of mythical fever dream, and he’ll wake up the night after Louis Tomlinson first walked into the restaurant, and go back to his normal, shitty life.

He actually almost doesn’t recognise Louis at first – it’s the cheekbones that do it, because his hair’s tucked up under a beanie. It’s blue, which Harry thinks brings out his eyes, and he’s going to say that at some point and humiliate himself. He’s dressed disarmingly casually, probably to ensure that the general public doesn’t recognise him, here, meeting a boy, in some dumpy pub with a surprisingly good singer performing.

He gives Louis a little wave when he sees him, and he makes his way across the crowded pub and sits down beside Harry.

“Hey,” Harry says when Louis sits down, leaning in a little close, just to hear over the din. Louis smiles, nods.

“Nice to see you,” he says. “Have a good Christmas break?”

Harry nods. “Revised for exams, ate a lot of food, made fun of my sister.”

Louis shakes his head and laughs. “I’ve got five of those, I know how that feels. Want a pint?”

Harry nods.

“I’ll buy,” Louis says, standing up again. “For this round!”

* * *

Hanging out with Harry is surprisingly pleasant. It’s like being with Zayn, but there’s just a hint of romantic tension that Louis sincerely enjoys. He doesn’t want to rush things with Harry, just enjoy this time and this freedom.

They end up back at his place, surprisingly, because it’s farther away from that funny little pub, but Louis doesn’t have pesky Irish roommates. It’s well past one when they get in – Harry doesn’t have an exam or anything tomorrow, he checked – so it’s fine for him to stay out late.

“Can I make you some tea?” Louis asks, once they’ve hung up coats and put away umbrellas, and Harry is awkwardly leaning against the island in the kitchen. Louis can’t tell Harry this yet – maybe ever, he doesn’t know – but he’s stunning, all tall lean muscle and beautiful brown curls that fall down and frame his face. His button-down shirt is just undone enough that he can see some ink on Harry’s chest – thinks that make Louis endlessly curious.

“Don’t swallows mate for life?” He asks. He can only see one bird, inked over Harry’s collarbones.

Harry nods. “Haven’t found that someone yet, you know?”

“Then you’ll get a matching bird.”

“Hmmm.” He takes his tea from Louis, nodding in gratitude.

“Let’s go sit somewhere more comfortable,” Louis says. “I mean, let’s go to the living room.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “I gotcha.” He smiles and looks down a little demurely, hair falling in his face, and in that moment, he’s the most beautiful thing that Louis has ever seen.

They go and sit down in the living room, Harry flopping down in an armchair and Louis sitting across from him on the couch. The distance feels awkward and unnatural, given how close they were in the pub, whispering in each other’s ears like giggly schoolgirls.

Harry sips his tea quietly, and then looks up at Louis, and bites his lip.

“I need to ask you something,” Harry says, “and I promise, I won’t tell.”

“Shoot,” he says.

“Are you gay?”

Louis has not thought about the answer to this question, because there’s a whole new world of labels and words for things he doesn’t understand, but that are now open to him, things that he didn’t know about as a teenager in Doncaster or a young man, cast in front of the bright lights in television, the world’s greatest gilded cage. But, yeah, he’s never had that spark for girls, always kissed them and sometimes fucked them for the benefit of keeping up an image, being the person he always thought he needed to be, so that probably does make him gay.

“I think so,” he says. “That’s a stupid answer, I’m sorry.”

Harry waves it off. “No, that makes sense.”

Louis takes a sip of his tea.

“I – I remember when I was growing up, I was a bit confused by it,” Harry says. “Because no one else talked about it, you know? And my dad, he wasn’t okay with it, but my mum and my stepdad, they was always nice.” Harry’s staring down into his tea, now, and Louis wonders whether he’s hit something a little too sensitive for a first time seeing each other. “But, it’s – weird, because it’s fluid but not something you can consciously change, you know? And you can drive it under a bushel or acknowledge it, but you can’t change it.”

“Well said,” Louis mutters, and takes another sip of his tea. “You talk to your dad much?”

“Saw him once over Christmas,” Harry says, “but he wants me to cut my hair and wear fewer floral print shirts, so I guess that’s out.”

Louis laughs, instinctually, and then stops himself.   
“It’s funny, don’t worry,” Harry says, with a smile. “Kind of. I have to laugh at it, you know?”

Louis nods.

“Does anyone back home know about you?”

Louis shrugs. “My mum, , and my older sisters. I think everyone suspects a little, you know?”

“Gemma knew before I did,” Harry says. “It gets easier, I promise. I can’t speak for the Daily Mail, but the general populace is pretty okay with gay. Or they’re getting there.”

“When do I get my first floral shirt?” Louis asks, a note of sarcasm in his voice.

“You have to pay your membership dues first,” Harry says, nodding. “They’re pretty reasonable.”

Louis can’t decide whether he wants to kiss Harry or just be best friends forever. Maybe both.

* * *

 

Harry sleeps over at Louis’ house that night. And, after going to home to grab some spare clothes and books, because he does have an exam on the Monday, he sleeps over the next night. Actually, he’s spending a lot of time with Louis, which doesn’t make the ambivalent way he feels about Louis any easier. He comes to the conclusion that yes, he wants to be with him, like, _with him_ with him, but he also has a strong and overwhelming desire to not date someone who has to be publicly closeted.

He sits in the living room, trying to understand the poststructuralist historiographical school while Louis talks to his dad in his bedroom. He hears his rise sharply a couple of times, which makes him think back to what Louis was saying about expectations and the like.

Louis comes back to the kitchen, face dark and hands balled in little fists, and he leans on the counter, near where Harry sits on a stool, drinking his cup of tea.

“How did it go?” Harry asks.

Louis shakes his head. “He knows. He definitely knows, but she won’t accept it. Thinks everything can just change.”

“Shit,” Harry says, standing up, and wrapping his arms around him. Louis is just tall enough to tuck under his chin, and his hair is soft and his body melts easily into Harry as he sobs quietly. “Lou, I’m so sorry.”

He runs his hands up and down Louis’ back, trying to comfort him. “Sometimes it takes time, babe.”

Louis nods, and then pulls back and wipes his eyes. For him, the lord of sarcasm and sharpness, it’s an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability. “I’m sorry, Harry, don’t mean to dump this all on you.”

“ ‘S what I’m here for,” Harry says, smiling.

“Yeah,” Louis says, and it’s a moment of serendipity, or all the planets align, and then Louis is leaning in, on his tippy-toes a little, and Harry’s coming down to meet him kiss him, softly but surely.

When they break apart, Louis is smiling from ear to ear, eyes still a little watery.

“Ummm.” He says, looking down at his feet.

Harry gently lifts his chin up with his thumb, and kisses him again.

* * *

 

At the end of February, Louis invites him to a _thing._

Like a fancy, official thing, where there will be people significantly more famous than Harry Styles, History BA, could ever aspire to be, and where he’ll probably have to get dressed up and be polite and things. Louis spends hours on the phone, trying to get pap injunctions and talk to the people organising it to tone down the number of photographers that will inevitably be there. Harry finally grits his teeth, gets up from his essay, and tells Louis to stop worrying about it.

“You sure?” Louis says, looking half-shocked.

“I can handle it,” Harry replies. Louis cocks an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” Louis says. “Really. I don’t want to put you under a spotlight that you don’t want or need.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Harry says. “Really.”

Louis stands up and hugs Harry. “It’s going to be kind of shitty,” he says, finally. “Just stay close.”

Harry can handle that.

* * *

This whole thing that he’s taking Harry to – it’s some stupid person’s birthday party, and he barely knows them, but there’s some person in his management company that thinks that he hasn’t been prostrating himself in front of paparazzi enough – is going to be one massive clusterfuck, he can just feel it.

Alberto – bodyguard, you need one of those for certain teenage fans – drives them in a black Escalade, which is a car that Louis feels has no place in the world, let alone winding London streets, and Louis and Harry sit in the back together, Louis gently squeezing Harry’s knee as they go.

“Babe,” Harry says, resting a hand on his thigh (Louis loves that pet name so much), “it’s going to be fine.”

Harry has no idea what he’s getting himself into. Also, Harry looks damn fine, tight black jeans and a flowing white button-up with brightly coloured birds on it, covered by a black blazer – and suddenly, Louis is wondering whether the car has a partition. This might be something to think of for the way back.

“We’re about two minutes away,” Alberto shouts. Louis nods at him and flashes him a thumbs up.

“There’s going to be a gauntlet of cameras when we pull up,” Louis says, leaning in close to Harry. “Just walk forward, chin up –“

Harry kisses him to stop him talking, and his lips are so soft and he smells like that awesome cologne Louis bought him a couple days ago that he almost tells Alberto to just turn around and go home. But no, this is important, because it matters that he can roll up with his boyfriend and show everyone that he’s not that different after all.

Alberto pulls to a stop, turns off the car, and comes around to open the door. Louis can hear the cameras snap and flash, and he takes a deep breath.

“Ready?” He asks Harry, looking back. Harry nods at him, smiles, and then Alberto opens the door and all hell breaks loose.

Harry’s hand on his back steadies him as he walks down the red carpet, and he smiles for the cameras for the first time in ages and ages. And then, some dick from the crowd yells, and Louis hears this over the din – “Faggot!”

He stops and whips around. “Who the fuck was that?” He yells. Suddenly, all the good feelings that he’s having about being at this party in the first place are gone, replaced by an intense desire to punch a pap. (Again.) It’s hard for him to find who yelled it, because the lights are so blinding, and he’s reminded as to why he normally avoids these types of events,

“Babe,” Harry says, leaning down and whispering in his ear, “Alberto’s got it. Let’s go on in.” True, Louis does see Alberto making his way into the melee of photographers, and he turns around, even though his anger still burns.

They pass their coats off at the coat check, and find a booth with Aiden, one of Louis’ old X-Factor buddies and someone who might be Rita Ora; he doesn’t actually know, which is probably bad. Louis is really bad at being famous.

They slide into the booth, Rita plastered into Harry’s side and Louis almost in Aiden’s lap, the atmosphere of the club heightened by the warmth of bodies pressing together and the beat of the music vibrating through Louis’ bones.

Aiden leans over, extending his hand to Harry. “You must be the boy Tommo’s told me so much about!”

Harry nods, and yells back, “I sure hope so!”

Aiden laughs. Harry is a charming bastard. Louis never stood a chance. He grins, and Aiden gives him a friendly punch in the shoulder. Rita tugs on Harry’s shirtsleeve again, and he starts talking to her, and Louis talks shop with Aiden (basically, football, let’s be real), until Harry taps him on the shoulder.

“Babe,” he yells, “do you mind if I go dance?” He nods his head in Rita’s direction, where she has now met up with a gaggle of her friends. Harry loves to dance, which Louis has seen, to his great amusement.

Louis nods. “ ‘S fine.”

“Wanna come?” Harry smiles. “It’ll be great!”

“Nah,” Louis replies. “It takes a lot to get me dancing, babe.”

Harry shrugs. “Come find me if you change your mind!” He follows Rita and posse on to the dance floor, Louis observing his receding form.

“He just called you babe,” Aiden says. “That’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve heard all week.”

“He’s a keeper, what can I say?” Louis says, smiling. He can just barely see Harry, grooving to the music, and feels the slightest inkling of wanting to go up there with him. “I’m curious to see how many shots it’s going to take me to get up there.”

Aiden smiles wickedly. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

* * *

 

Harry had always been under the impression that Louis didn’t dance. Like, it was never something he did willingly, unless, as it turns out, he’s had some number of tequila shots (Harry thinks it might be three, but he can’t really hear, and Louis is literally all over him on the dance floor so he can’t be arsed to process things properly). He grinds up against Louis, chest to back, and they’re easily not the most outwardly affectionate couple on the dance floor, but it feels intimate in a different way than their average Saturday night cuddle session does. Harry is suddenly half-hard in his trousers, and oh – wait – it’s like someone’s flicked a switch, like now he wants Louis mind and body and soul. It happens to be the body part he’s focused on now, feeling like he wants to outline every tattoo on Louis’ body with his tongue.

The DJ flips to a slower song, and Louis turns around, and reaches up to pull Harry in to a slow kiss. Harry savours the moment, sparks running up and down his spine where Louis traces at the top of his neck, and also realises that this is Louis showing him off – showing them off – to the world, and Harry had never quite thought he was ready for that.

“Babe,” Louis whispers in his ear, voice breathy, “I think we should go?”

Harry nods. He has plans for this evening that can’t be executed properly in public.

They stumble out of the club together, attached at the hip, Harry not noticing the paps like he did earlier because now he has a joyous, warm, bundle of boy snuggled into his side. Alberto brings the car around and he and Louis pile in, laughing at some stupid comment Harry makes about the paparazzi. Alberto speeds off, and Louis leans forward, grinning stupidly.

“Al,” he says (and Harry can’t help but notice Alberto’s shoulders tense up just a little, which causes Harry to make a mental note to tell Louis that _he should not call him that, even when drunk_ ), “is there a partition in this thing?”

Harry just catches Alberto’s grin in the rearview mirror as he flicks a switch on the dash, and yup, there’s a partition rolling up.

 _Oh._ Harry’s brain is clouded by Louis’ cologne and also a little bit of alcohol, but he’s still excited for whatever’s coming next.

Louis is on him the next moment, kissing him like the world depends on it and slipping a hand under his shirt. Harry kisses back with just as much vigour, slips a hand around to rest on Louis’ bum. Louis whines a little into the kiss then, and maybe Harry’s being a little vulgar, moving a bit fast, but Louis is practically in his lap, grinding down on him, and Harry cannot fucking _breathe_ with how much he wants him right now. Louis palms Harry’s dick through his pants, and Harry gasps, breaks this kiss, because right now all he wants is Louis all over him.

Louis moves his hand over Harry’s belt buckle, and asks, cautiously, “May I?”

Harry nods. Louis unbuckles his belt, pushes his trousers and pants down, and gets a hand around his cock in like, three seconds flat. Harry now gets why the partition is necessary. Louis jacks him off slowly, carefully, and Harry leans his head back against the window, closes his eyes and exhales.

“Fuck, babe,” he whispers, tries not to make an ass of himself or be too loud with Alberto on the other side of the partition, but Louis’ hand is velvet over steel and he can’t get enough.

“You like that, Harry?” Louis asks, voice high and breathy, and suddenly Harry is thinking about what it might be like to finger him, until he can only make high, breathy moans like that. Shit, Harry spurts a little precome at the thought, and his hips stutter upwards.

“Yeah,” he exhales, and leans back in towards Louis for a kiss, searing, Louis’ hand on him burning him up inside, and it’s a combination of the dancing and having Louis all over him for really, the first time, and Louis’ hand in his hair and the fact that _jesus Christ I’m getting a handjob in the back of a goddamn Escalade with tinted windows_ that has him coming with a moan, spurting into Louis’ hand.

Louis wipes the come off his hand with some tissues handily stored in the back of the car (not by him, Harry assumes, the one coherent thought in his post-orgasmic haze of a brain), and then curls up with Harry again, cleaning him up while peppering his neck and jaw with little kisses. It’s surprisingly sweet. Harry has plans that he’s going to put in action when 1) he’s not so boneless he can barely move and 2) they’re inside of a house, and maybe even close to a bed, but he’ll take what he can get.

He manages to get himself back to his normal state by the time Alberto drops them back off at Louis’ place. When they get in the front entryway, Louis plops down on the bench to pull off his shoes, and Harry drops down in front of him, gently pushing his knees apart.

“Babe?” Louis says, confused.

“Uh,” Harry says, looking up at Louis, trying to play innocent, “can I, uh, suck you off?” He may as well use his words at this point.

Louis goes a bit pink and a little flustered. “Shit, uh, if you’d like.”

“Of course I’d like to, idiot,” Harry says, rolling his eyes and unbuckling his belt. “Probably wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to.”

“Uh,” Louis says, nodding. He still looks a little terrified.

Harry raises an eyebrow, and thinks to ask, “Has anyone ever done this for you before?”

Louis shakes his head.

“Ah,” Harry says, smiling, and feels a little satisfied that he gets to blow Louis for the first time. “That makes a bit more sense.” His fingers skim the tops of Louis’ hipbones, just above the waistline of his jeans, and he smirks. “I mean, I don’t have to, babe.”

“Please,” Louis whines, voice small, and _aha,_ there, Harry’s got him.

He unbuckles his trousers, kissing gently over the exposed skin, and then Louis cants his hips off the bench, and Harry slowly pulls off his trousers and his pants, and, oh man, now Harry remembers why he loves giving head so much. Louis’ cock is wide, and as Harry kisses down through the small tuft of pubic hair and feels a shiver run through Louis’ body as he gently cups his balls, taking in the musk and scent of Louis. His immediate instinct is to swallow him down, but he wants to draw this out a little, take a bit of time, make sure Louis is well and truly blissed out before he comes.

He makes a loose fist around the base, and slowly licks a stripe up the underside, eyes on Louis as he does. Louis’ eyes are heavy and lidded, looking down at Harry through his eyelashes, and Harry has never seen anything quite so beautiful. He takes the tip in his mouth, humming appreciatively of the weight of Louis’ cock on his tongue. He take him in slowly, bobbing his head back and forth, moving his hand to meet with his mouth. Louis’ hand is trembling where it rests between Harry’s shoulder blades, and he keeps making quiet little gasps every time Harry swallows him down.

He figures Louis could probably handle a faster pace (well that, and he also wants to hear some of those pretty little moans), and starts moving his hand and his mouth together more vigorously, moaning around Louis’ pretty cock, just to let him know how much he appreciates his letting Harry do this for him.

“Oh,” Louis moans, “oh, fuck, Harry.” He grips the material of Harry’s shirt, and gasps like the air’s been knocked out of his lungs when Harry pauses, briefly, looks up at him, and dips his tongue Louis’ slit. He gets precome on his chin, and he pauses for a moment, staring up at Louis while jacking him off, just slow enough so that the stretch and burn in his abdomen keeps growing, but release is achingly still over the horizon.

“You like this?” Harry says, licking another bead of precome off Louis’ slit for emphasis.

“Oh,” Louis whimpers, back arching and head thrown back against the wall. It occurs to Harry that while tonight was a big step out for the two of them, it might take a bit of time for Louis to really be at ease, given that he was in the closet for so long. Harry reaches with his free hand and slowly pries Louis’ hand from where it’s gripping on to the bench, so hard his knuckles are white, and takes it in his own.

“I’m here with you, okay?” Harry says. “You’re safe here. Just let yourself feel it, okay?”

Louis nods slowly as Harry takes his cock back in his mouth. He starts making breathy little moans every time Harry bobs his head down, and shit, the noises go straight to Harry’s dick, straining again against his jeans. Louis’ hips rock forward with Harry’s rhythm, and he takes it happily, knowing that it means that Louis is finally feeling okay, feeling like he can let himself have this pleasure.

“Shit,” Louis pants, “Harry, I’m gonna - gonna come soon.” There’s still a note of uncertainty in his voice, so Harry hums around his cock, pulls off with a pop, and looks up at Louis again, still stroking his cock.

“You want to come on my face?” He asks. “Or in my mouth. Your choice, babe.”

Louis looks overwhelmed.

“Uh,” Louis says, “uh, face.”

Harry nods, jacks him off faster and faster, until Louis’ hips rock forward and he comes, shooting ropes of come across Harry’s face.

“Good,” Harry says, stroking him through his orgasm, “so good for me, babe.”

Louis slumps back against the wall, and Harry draws himself up, leans in, and kisses Louis gently. Louis whimpers a little, cock probably still sensitive to Harry’s shirt.

“Babe,” Louis says, voice barely above a whisper, “I love you.”

Music to Harry’s ears. “Love you too, Lou.”

* * *

  _1 year later_

Louis hates, absolutely hates, being away from Harry. It’s patently unfair, and usually they can avoid it, but sometimes there’s an unfortunate confluence of school and important business meetings that have to take place in Los Angeles for some stupid reason, and he’s been away for ten days and it sucks. Skype (and Skype sex) is a half-decent substitute, but as he gets closer and closer to his flat, Louis counts the seconds until he can be back in Harry’s arms.

He gets a text from him on his way back from the airport, as he speeds back into London. 

_From: Harry  
Dinner’s ready for when you get home, love _

_To: Harry  
Brill, thx _ _:)_

_From: Harry  
Miss you… _

_To: Harry  
im like 15 mins out _

_From: Harry  
900 seconds _

_To: Harry  
899 now ;)_

* * *

 

Harry must have been waiting by the front door, because as soon as Louis walks in, he’s wrapped in a hug so tight that it may very well kill him. (What a way to go, though.)

“Babe,” Louis whispers, wrapped up and secure in Harry’s warm embrace, “hi.” All the things that he’s so viscerally missed about Harry – how soft his curls are, how he smells, the way he just tucks Louis under his chin and kisses him on his forehead when he comes in the door. It’s all the reasons why he counts the last twelve months as some of the best he’s ever had, and how he can’t wait for more and more with this beautiful boy.

Want – visceral, lusty want – also floors him in that moment, and suddenly he doesn’t care that he hasn’t had a decent meal since leaving Los Angeles – what he wants now, more than whatever delicious thing Harry has certainly cooked, is to be naked and wrapped up with him. He gets up on his tippy toes and kisses Harry ferociously, rocking his hips against Harry.

“Ah,” Harry says, when they break apart, “I’d set the table, but I see you’ve got other plans.”

Louis nods.

“I’m totally good with that, by the way,” Harry says, and then Louis grabs his hand and leads him to their bedroom. It all feels very civilised, until he tackles Harry on to the bed and pins him to the bed, grinding against him. Harry pulls him down, moving his hips up to match the rhythm, and they make out like that until Louis is half-hard in his trousers with other plans for the evening.

He tugs at the waist of Harry’s trousers, unbuckling his belt as Harry lifts up his hips to pull them off. They’re both naked and rubbing up against each other in a flash, Harry groaning at the velvet over steel sensation when their cocks line up. Louis rests his forehead against Harry’s, panting slightly, revelling in the skin on skin contact.

“How do you want it tonight?” Harry asks. “Me or you?”

“Hmmm,” Louis debates, and despite all the very detailed sexual fantasies he’s had in the past couple of days, he actually doesn’t have a good answer to Harry’s question, has to think about it for a few seconds. “Kinda wanna ride you. Just work myself up on your cock, be a bit of a show off for you.”

“Oh god,” Harry says. Louis grinds against his cock for emphasis.

“Think of it as an early birthday present, love.” He sits back, straddling Harry. (He’s just being a little shit about the birthday present thing. He’d really do this if Harry just looked at him the right way.) “Well, go on then, I’m not going to prep myself.”

“You could,” Harry says, reaching over to the nightstand for some lube. “Make the prettiest noises when you do.”

Nonetheless, Harry slicks up one long finger, reaching around and slipping it inside Louis as he lifts his hips. Really, Louis just has a thing for Harry’s fingers, long and graceful, which he has so missed these past few days. One for him is just a little pressure, just Harry warming up, whereas two has a little bit of the stretch and burn that Louis craves. Harry crooks his fingers against his spot and Louis drops his head back and sighs, because there is still no way he can recreate this sensation for himself. He grinds down a little on Harry’s fingers and licks his lips.

“So beautiful, babe,” Harry says, adding a third finger. Harry can make him come like this, rocking back on his fingers and Harry curling them just in the right spot. Louis’ cock fattens up against his belly, and he can feel Harry getting hard under them. A shiver of anticipation passes down Louis spine, because three fingers, even as Harry scissors them, do not even come close to how Harry’s cock feels inside him.

“ ‘m good,” Louis murmurs, and Harry withdraws his fingers. He gives Harry’s cock a few tugs, slicks it up with the lube, then grips the base and sinks down slowly, moaning as he does. He loves the feeling of being on display for Harry, letting him see what the stretch and burn of his cock does for Louis as he bottoms out. Harry gently runs his finger along Louis’ rim, savouring where they’re joined, and Louis makes a mental note to never leave home without Harry, ever ever again.

He starts rocking his hips slowly, setting a slow pace, wanting to feel the burn in his thighs just like the heat that’s surely gathering at the base of Harry’s spine. He runs his fingers over his nipples, toying with them equally for his and Harry’s pleasure, and is rewarded with a finger alongside Harry’s cock, stretching him out exquisitely.

“Look so good, _fuck,”_ Harry groans, voice a deep rumble in his chest. “Love you taking my cock like this.”

Louis sinks down again for emphasis, smiling. He picks up the rhythm, cantering his hips, feeling how Harry responds in equal time. He scans down Harry, blissed out face and flush spreading down his neck to his collarbone – and hang on, wait, that’s new.

He sits down on Harry’s cock, panting. “Babe, looks like you got something a little different going on?” He traces his hand over the second bird on Harry’s collarbone, facing the first one.

“I was going to show you after dinner,” Harry says. “ ‘S for you. Got it done the day after you left.”

They have one set of couples tats, an anchor and a rope, but this – Harry adding the second swallow just for Louis, inking the two of them in birds that mate for life – this is more than Louis could ever imagine. The bird is smaller, curvier, with the hint of an eyebrow, and yeah, it’s like him, if he were to ever turn into a swallow. (If that ever were to happen, he’d take Harry with him.)

He finds himself getting choked up a little, eyes a bit watery, and he has to lean in and kiss Harry then, he’s so full of love that he doesn’t have the words to express what this means to him.

Harry starts rocking his hips against him, slowly, and Louis joins again, heat pooling low in his abdomen. He leans back and fucks himself down on Harry with reckless abandon, Harry tracing the rope tattooed on Louis’ wrist with one hand and stroking his cock with the other. Louis’ little moans as he fucks down on Harry’s cock swell as he nails his spot, and he’s close, so close, and then before he knows it he’s spurting all over Harry’s chest. Harry lasts another thirty seconds with Louis grinding down on him, whimpering at the overstimulation, before he comes, filling Louis up. Louis carefully slips off Harry’s dick and lies down beside him, Harry turning on his side to face him. They tangle up in each other, standard post-coital cuddling for them, but Louis can’t stop tracing the swallow on Harry’s collarbone, not now that he knows it’s all for him.

“D’ya like it?” Harry asks.

“I – I don’t know what to say,” Louis says. “I still remember talking about the one bird for the first time, and – and –“ He trails off, because his heart is so full he swears it might burst.

“Couldn’t imagine doing it with someone else,” Harry whispers, and yeah, even with the media speculation and the paparazzi hounding them and people being idiots, he still couldn’t imagine doing this with any other person. “I just love you so much, Lou.”

“I love you too, Harry.”


End file.
